


Test to Destruction

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Action, Bondage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture, Triggers, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-18
Updated: 2011-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames is a contrary, cynical bastard and Arthur is new to dreamshare. To begin with, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my love for viva_gloria, who did a sparkling job of betaing, and veronica_greyson, who also beta'd and suggested pertinent plot details, and xen, who held my hand and was extremely encouraging.

"Why'd you bring him to me?" Eames asks when Ford opens the door.

"Why, I'm great, Eames, how are you?" She brushes inside past him, not waiting for an invitation. He grits his teeth but lets her. He knows she's not armed. It was the first thing he looked for when he opened the door.

Eames shuts the door and brings on his most charming smile. "Lovely to see you, Edwina, won't you take a cup of tea?" he says, with a sweetness that makes her wince.

"All right, point taken." Ford collapses into one of his dining room chairs. "He's going to be here any minute. If you have something to say, make it quick."

"There's plenty of people who could help you with this."

Ford doesn't nod, but she smiles a little, tiny and controlled, the expression that she wears when she thinks she's getting away with something.

Eames has a folder tucked away somewhere, full of information about the young man Ford invited to Eames' house, with Eames' permission obtained only as an afterthought. Part of this folder he received from Ford. The rest he got by asking around and - not to put too fine a point on it - outright prying.

Everything Eames has found tells him that this man, Arthur, is new to dreamsharing, with the kind of military history it takes too much time to to uncover in any depth. He comes very highly recommended, if scantly so. For good or bad, he hasn't made many connections in either the criminal underworld at large nor the little nook of it that the dreamsharers occupied.

But all of those things could be lies, misinformation. Eames has enemies. Yet if this is the case, Ford would hardly tell him so - either she's been bought already, or she doesn't know. So Eames asks, "I can't imagine I was the first person that came to mind if you needed a training arena."

Ford smirks. "You'll see when you meet him," is all she says, and Eames has nothing to do but retreat to the corner of the living room and wait for the others to arrive. Covertly, he sends a message to Gemma, the point woman running the job he's currently entangled with. He doesn't particularly trust her, but she's got a vested interest in keeping him alive until the job comes through. If he doesn't get back to her within two hours, she's to check up on him and send back up if necessary.

 _I'm not your goddamn babysitter_ , she swiftly replies, but Eames doesn't pay it any heed, since he's got company.

One of the men walking through the doors is someone Eames knows, a chemist named Jeremy. It's not unusual to work with a chemist while initiating someone young; Somnacin was never FDA-regulated, after all, and adverse reactions to the standard dosage are more common than not.

The other man, the one whipping out a handful of papers and giving them to Jeremy, Eames doesn't know. He slinks to the kitchen to make his acquaintance.

"Arthur," the man says, holding out a hand.

Eames takes it. There's an art to a well-crafted handshake, the type that will make even the most reluctant, cynical bastard trust you. Arthur's not immune to it, Eames can tell; it's obvious in the shift of his posture, minute and yet so solidly _there_.

More so in the smile Arthur directs at him, startlingly warm and almost shy. "Nice to meet you. Thank you for agreeing to help, Ford said it was kinda last-minute for you."

That it was, but it was completely Ford's fault. She knows Eames can find a way to wriggle out if she gives him an inch. "Don't think of it," Eames says magnanimously. "It's in everyone's interests to train the newcomers well. Nobody likes an architect who caves under pressure - you do intend to be an architect, yeah?" That's what Eames' file says.

Arthur semi-shrugs. "It seems like a good choice." Cautious, his body-language growing more distant the more Eames talks; an unexpected reaction, and rather delightful for it. Eames grins, baring teeth.

"What have we here?" Eames grabs at the papers held loosely in Jeremy's grip. They're littered with tiny print, some sections helpfully highlighted. "Is this a formula modification?" Eames pages through it, but only the first page appears to have been altered from the standard Somnacin formula. Looks like young Arthur already knows a thing or two about proper dreamshare conduct. "Nicely done." He turns to Ford. "Have you briefed him?"

She grimaces. "What's to brief about?"

Eames turns, about to explain everything to Arthur himself, when Arthur says, "There's something in your mind I'm supposed to look for. I don't know what it is, but it'll be marked for me." He rolls his eyes - only begins to, rather, the gesture quickly aborted, but Eames registers the intent. "It's not the first time I've done this."

"I can see," Eames says, putting the list of Arthur's chemical sensitivities back on the table. "What rules are we playing by, then?" At Arthur's scornful look, Eames adds, "Indulge me."

"You do your best to keep me out," Arthur says. "I can tap out by falling backwards, which is triggered to send me out of the dream. Otherwise, if I die I'll just respawn."

Eames' mouth twitches at that last word. "We call it ‘regroup’ in the business," he says. "You say you have done this. Do you know what it means, to die in a dream?"

Arthur holds his gaze, steady. At length, he simply says, "Yes."

Eames nods. "Very well. Good luck." He gives Arthur his hand to shake again; a gesture of good faith may help him in the inevitable unpleasantness afterwards. Nobody likes being killed until they can't take it anymore; people tend to bear a grudge.

"Thanks," Arthur says, his voice a perfect balance between sincerity and sarcasm. "So are we doing this?"

Arthur lies down first. He's not used to going under yet, so Jeremy hooks him up first with nothing but a mild sedative, to be slowly replaced with Somnacin, easing him into the dream. Eames lies down and bares his arm, waiting, watching Ford and Jeremy.

"You still haven't answered me," Eames says, looking at Ford accusingly.

She smirks. "Guy needs taking down a peg. You'll do him good."

Eames won't ask again, but Jeremy does it for him, frowning and asking Ford, "So why him?"

"He's the most contrary, cynical bastard I know," Ford says as Jeremy kneels over Eames, swabbing his wrist and hooking him up. "He's gonna eat that little boy alive."

"I don't know," Eames dimly hears Jeremy say, but then everything drowns in a heavy silence.

~~

Eames opens his eyes to a world full of snow, flurries picked up by a cutting wind and sticking to his eyelashes. Arthur must be here already, then; Eames' dreams are never so hostile when he's here by his lonesome.

It's blasted cold, for obvious reasons. So Eames grins, bares his teeth, and slips into something a little more suitable for the weather.

While forging, there's always the tension of balancing your own motives with those of the forgery. One can't let oneself forget those, for fear of losing character, of losing the target's trust. And yet, one must maintain a sense of one's own goals, because who else will work for that?

But his goal is singular now, and it is easy. Find the intruder in his territory. Drive him out, over and over, until he stays out.

Eames stretches, luxuriating in the heaviness of his bones, the power in his legs and jaws, the warmth of his fur. He yawns hugely, saber teeth shining in the bright, cold light, and sets off on the trail of scent he can find.

As he goes, he can feel others joining him, their footfalls silent as they run, their silver coats almost invisible against the snow.

Tigers' mouths are not made for smiling, but Eames does anyway, inwardly. The hunt is on.

~~

They find the intruder within minutes. Eames' pack of projections surrounds him, growling almost inaudibly. Eames crouches, ready to pounce but waiting, and the pack perforce holds back as well.

Arthur stands still, hands held out as if to pacify them. Eames twitches his whiskers, feeling the murmur of excitement passing though his projections. _Not a chance,_ he thinks, vicious and joyful with it. But he'll give Arthur the chance to tap out, first. Eames won't judge.

Well, not out loud, anyway.

But the next moment, Arthur breaks off into a run. He's fast. Not fast enough, though.

By the times Eames gets to Arthur – to where Arthur was – there's nothing but blood spatters staining the snow red. Eames' projections circle the spot, tails flicking. Eames sits up and raises his head, perks up his ears to catch any sound.

Far off, he thinks he hears someone cursing. He turns and runs, and the pack follows close behind.

~~

The dream is big. This means that Eames has a lot of ground to cover, every time Arthur dies, to find him wherever he reappears. But it also means that if Arthur's trying to keep his eye on the prize, he has far to run and not an awful lot of places to hide as he moves.

When Eames finds Arthur, he kills him. Not necessarily in ways that would make for a quick death, but in the ways that are most efficient for Eames, swiping claws across Arthur's chest to leave him gasping and bleeding out in the snow, spreading out his projections to wait signs of Arthur's reappearance as he's dying.

Arthur's getting slower, but it's not actually helping Eames, since he's also becoming wilier. The dream is mostly a snowy wasteland, but there are caves, their entrances hidden, and Arthur finds one and leads Eames' team on a merry chase underground.

They catch him, of course, but then have to sort themselves out running back to the surface. It's no easy feat to control one's own projections, even when one's subconscious is of a mind with, well, one's mind. The catlike psyches, when bereft of prey to hunt, panic underground, and the watchers Eames left outside scatter when Eames turns his attention away from them.

They're more unruly than they have any right to be. Eames has suspicions, and they are confirmed when he finally leaves the caves to find a trail of blood leading, too obvious, into another set of caves. Eames follows it, leaving the rest of the pack outside. Good thing, too, because he comes to a dead end, trapped in a tunnel that gets too narrow for his current form, and certainly for those of his projections.

Eames changes back into a man, first so he can properly smirk in approval, second so he can follow Arthur through the tunnel. This is becoming more interesting than he expected.

~~

The caverns aren't as cold as the surface. Still bloody cold, though. Eames has stopped trying to control his projections, trusting them to get the job done to the best of their abilities. Some have popped up in here, of course, in suitable forms – bats rushing and poisonous bugs skittering about.

It’s harder to track as a man, on unimpressionable stone, than as a tiger on snow. Less distractions, on the other hand, and Eames’ projections know where there is something in the dream that should not be. He follows them as the air grows danker and darker, makes a moss shine luminous to light his way.

Arthur can’t do that, not without alerting Eames and his hunting pack. How is he managing to find his way like that, in the darkness? Eames imagines him with his eyes closed, fingers reaching out to feel the walls around him, his steps cautious in unknown territory.

Yet there’s something wrong. Every tiny sound echoes in the cave, even the scramble of the bugs’ legs across the floor. A grown man makes far more noise, and surely Arthur would have stumbled by now.

It occurs to Eames that he himself isn’t entirely sure where he’s hiding the secret he needs to keep away from Arthur. Arthur’s never got anywhere near it yet. Of this Eames is sure.

He’s also suddenly, startlingly certain it isn’t in the caves.

Eames snarls and turns back, but the tide of projections is against him. They’re taking all manner of odd forms, mice and voles and blind fish, things that belong underground and are weak by themselves but they’re overwhelming Eames, flooding the limited space and actively fighting him as he tries to make his way out.

He struggles against them for a moment, baffled, then gets a grip on himself. Literally. Eames focuses inwards and gathers himself, the knowledge that this is his mind that holds the dream together, and _twists_.

The projections subside, disappearing into wisps of smoke, and then nothing. Eames makes his way back out, unimpeded and bloody furious.

No more playing nice guy. Arthur may now consider Eames’ claws officially unsheathed.

~~

Back on the surface, Eames finds and kills Arthur three times in rapid succession. On the third, he gets to do it himself, conjuring a knife to his hand to stick it between Arthur’s ribs, to watch his eyes widen and his face turn pale.

It’s not just slow consideration, Eames realizes. Arthur’s wearing down. Eames licks his lips in satisfaction, tasting cold blood.

Arthur’s clever. When he can get out of Eames’ sight, he plants false evidence, lets his blood splash on the snow before he runs in the opposite direction, keeping pressure on his arm to keep from bleeding out. He takes convoluted turns in and out of the cave, always keeping one step ahead of Eames’ projections.

Not ahead of Eames, though, who has stopped participating, choosing to watch instead. It’s only a matter of time, after all. Nobody has made their way safely into Eames’ mind since his first days in the business. This upstart isn’t going to be the one to do it.

 _Give him two years, though,_ whispers something cold and fearful in the recesses of Eames’ mind. It echos in the air, on the wind suddenly howling, blowing as though to rip through Eames’ temporary peace.

Eames nods absently, in acknowledgement, and resumes running. In two years, he may very well be defeated. But not today.

~~

It’s a long, slow effort, but Arthur is visibly weakening. He makes less and less ground before the projections catch up with him, is slower to get on his feet every time.

It makes Eames feel knowledgeable, at first. He doesn't bother keeping to the front of the pack anymore, lagging after them.

This time, he catches up just as they're killing Arthur. In a display of true randomness, Arthur reappears less than a meter from where he died, surrounded by projections. They're tense, coiled to pounce, when Arthur tries to get to his feet and fails.

Something ripples through the crowd of Eames' projections, somewhere between bafflement and tension. Arthur's hands scrabble for purchase in the snow and find none, his legs kicking jerkily, his grace of earlier all but gone.

Eames walks through the tigers to Arthur, coming to crouch beside him. "Give in," he says, softer than he meant. The wind dies down, suddenly, so that Eames feels almost warm.

Arthur shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. Oh, this is something Eames knows, and well. Shock: Die in a dream, and your mind will believe you really died. It's something one becomes accustomed to, over time and experience (and deaths, never forget that). Eames has forgotten to account for how inexperienced Arthur is.

Granted, Arthur was doing a fair job of helping him forget. He's barely moving now, lying below Eames, occasional spasms passing through his body. Eames watches, patient, but growing less so by the minute.

"You're not getting it," Eames says quietly. "You've lost. Tap out, Arthur, I truly have no wish to hurt you further. There's no need."

Arthur's lips peel back in an expression much too grim to be called a smile. "So give me the goddamned secret," he whispers, chest heaving. His eyes are closed.

Eames' smile, in contrast, is the genuine article. He bends enough that Arthur can probably feel his breath on his face, and says, "No."

Arthur lunges up – or tries to, at any rate, cringing before he can manage to hurt Eames, curling up on himself, breath ragged.

"Come on," Eames says, standing up. "No reason to drag this further. I'll help you get up and you'll tap out."

Arthur opens his eyes, exhaling, body going limp in the snow. He doesn't take Eames' outreached hand, staring at him glassily instead.

Something rumbles behind Eames. He looks back to see one of the tigers with a neatly wrapped parcel between its paws. He noses it, nudging it closer to Eames.

And by proximity, to Arthur.

Eames looks at it, then at the projection, then at Arthur. "Well?" he says. "There it is. Come and take it or tap out."

In Arthur's eyes, something flashes white-hot and flickers out, dying. Eames blinks. Heavy clouds gather above them. The rain falls suddenly, inexplicably warm.

"I can't," Arthur says, presumably to both choices. Eames nods, slowly, taking in the state of him, sprawled on the snow, limbs still twitching helplessly.

"All right." Eames slits his throat – a quick death now, and painless. He stands up to throw himself back and send himself out of the dream. Before his balance tips, he sees the projections gathering around Arthur. One of them is licking his face.

~~

Eames wakes up to a bloody row.

"I can't fucking put you under," Ford says. "If you want his subconscious to rip you to shreds have fun, but I'm not having you ruin my training exercise."

"Training exercise my arse," Gemma growls, low-voiced. "You're telling me I got an SMS telling me to send backup for a bloody training exercise?"

"I'm telling you exactly that. Jeremy, back me up here." Ford nudges him.

Eames decides that will be a fine time to interrupt. "No need for anyone going under." He sits up, wincing at the crick in his neck. "Everything's fine, just ran over schedule."

Gemma walks over to him and punches him in the shoulder, not gently. "This is the last time I cover for you, you fucking bastard."

Eames groans and sits up, rubbing his shoulder. "Duly noted." He darts a glance at Arthur, who is slowly blinking awake. "All right, everything's fine, thank you all very much, now kindly bugger off."

Gemma and Ford start yelling in unison, and Eames doesn't want to deal with this. He stands up. "Get. Out," he says, in a voice developed to carry over to the last row in a theater with utterly shitty acoustics. "Now."

Gemma shoots him a glare fit to set a lesser man on fire. Ford doesn't even bother with that, keeping her head down as she wraps up her PASIV. Jeremy is already out, anxiously looking back for Ford.

On his cot, Arthur stirs in a vague attempt to sit up. Eames puts a hand on his shoulder. "You can stay." Arthur stares up at him. His mouth moves, but Eames can't quite make out the words, spoken too softly.

As Gemma and Ford make their way out, muttering audibly to one another about asshole forgers, Eames puts some water to boil. When in doubt, make tea: Eames hates pandering to stereotypes except when they're handy, but this one is sunk deep into his bones.

When he goes back to the living room, bearing two steaming mugs, Arthur is sitting up. Eames starts to hand him one when he notices Arthur's hand is shaking rather badly. Eames puts both mugs on a side table and hunts for a throw blanket, which he drapes unceremoniously over Arthur's shoulders.

Arthur's head is bowed, his gaze aimed squarely at the floor.

"Good show," Eames says nonchalantly. He sits in an armchair and sips. Too weak. He sets it aside to brew further.

That twitch of Arthur's head could be construed as a nod, if one were feeling generous. He raises his head, slowly, with visible effort. It takes Eames back a bit, to his own start in the business. It's odd to remember, but there was a time when Eames would wake up from training simulations feeling like a truck ran over him, as though there was barely air in the room.

Arthur mumbles something. "What's that?" Eames asks.

"I should be going." Arthur's looking down again, as though holding his head up is too much effort.

"Go on, then," Eames says. The softness of his own voice catches him by surprise.

Arthur frowns. Eames can see his muscles tensing, a hard spasm wracking through him. He lists sidewise, just barely catching himself, moving back into his slouch of earlier and sagging until he's all but curled up, fetal-position style.

Eames puts down his mug and pushes Arthur gently until he's lying down, rearranging the blanket to cover him. "Sleep it off," he says. "You'll feel better in the morning."

Arthur opens his mouth. Eames looks at him, waiting for the token objection, but Arthur says, "Thank you," small but quite obviously sincere.

"You're welcome, darling." Eames takes Arthur's untouched mug to the kitchen, and is halfway through rinsing it before his ears catch up with his mouth. He blinks, the mug falling into the sink, bouncing harmlessly. Eames grips the kitchen granite.

So, he channels his mother when he finds himself taking care of someone: That's fairly reasonable, given that it's not something Eames had much cause to do as himself since... Ever, really. Tea and blankets and pet names – there are far worse ways to handle such a situation.

In the living room, Arthur is faintly snoring. It's an oddly comforting sound.


	2. Chapter 2

Eames' phone rings. Unidentified number, of fucking course, nobody in their bloody field can be buggered to keep to an identifiable signature. Eames supposes it's hypocritical of him to mind, but it's annoying.

It's even more annoying when he picks up to hear Ford say, "So whatcha doing next month?"

Eames has a number of answers in place for such questions, ranging from the blithe and obviously false to the uncomfortably plausible. He's not sure why he tells her the truth: "Nothing much. Why?"

"Got something lined up," says Ford, "thought you might like it."

And all right, maybe Eames wants to know what Ford is up to. She does have some useful connections. He hums noncommittally. "Send over the paperwork and we'll see. Who's your team?" Ford never calls him up for two-person jobs even though Eames (if he says so himself) can extract as well as he can forge.

"It's not _my_ team," she says. "Johanna's running it, I'm calling you as a favor to her."

Eames frowns. "If Johanna wants me, she can call her bloody self."

Ford snorts. "Yeah, like you'll take anything from someone who just called you, out of the blue? You wouldn't even answer her, I bet."

"I answered you, didn't I?" Eames says, growing more vexed by the second. Ford has that effect on him. "Though it rather escapes me why I did."

"Yeah, but you can't get away from me," Ford says, unrepentant. "You fucking owe me, Eames. Anyway, it's a decent team. She's got Brighton on point and that Arthur kid doing architecture."

Eames blinks. He's quite certain there was something he meant to say next, but it's lost. Instead he says, "No chemist?"

"Johanna's outsourcing it," Ford says. Before Eames can reply, she adds, "Brighton knows enough chemistry to check nothing's been tampered with, and she's going under, too. You can calm the fuck down, Eames."

This doesn't really mean much. Somnacin sensitivities differ enough between people that a skilled chemist can make them affect only a part of the team. But Eames is not without his own resources: He can send a sample for analysis, quiet-like. He's vigilant, and knows enough of sleight of hand that nobody will be pulling a switch on him.

Anyway, it's not like a chemist creating the substance on the spot makes it that much less risky. "All right," Eames says, drumming his fingers on his thighs. "Send the papers and we'll see."

~~

Ford, unfortunately, knows Eames rather well. So it turns out that the job is something he is interested in, a little political behind-the-scenes dirty play. Eames doesn’t give a fuck who’s in the government - it’s not like the law applies much to him in any case - but he loves the intricate interplay of it, the chain of favors going ‘round. Rather like dreamshare, when one thinks of it.

Eames shows up for the job a day late, since he’d spent something like a week dodging assassins employed by the last mark he worked on. Last bloody time he tries extracting from anyone whose daddy's in the Triads. This means he arrives rumpled, annoyed, and with his luggage mostly missing.

Brighton looks up briefly as he walks into the office they're working from, pushing her glasses up her nose and nodding at him. Eames nods back. He hasn't worked with Brighton before, but he's heard good things.

"Briefing in ten," she says, eyes already back on her papers. "Johanna and Arthur have gone under, but they should be up in a couple minutes."

Eames grunts in reply and goes to settle himself in. Brighton's left a heap of paper on his desk, photos and lists. There's more waiting in his email when he fires up his laptop, including some audio of his target.

 _O happy day_ , Eames mouths to himself, smirking. He does love a well-prepared job. There's joy in ripping apart lesser professionals, Eames isn't going to deny that, but it's nothing to the satisfaction of working with someone who knows what they're bloody well doing.

A hand falls heavy on his shoulder, and it takes conscious effort on Eames' part to refrain from breaking the wrist it's attached to. "Eames!" Johanna says. She grips him hard, then retreats.

Eames swivels his chair, taking in her expression: ill-concealed smugness under a thin veneer of professionalism. Arthur's lurking a step behind her, face blank but posture awkward, pacifying. Johanna's baiting Eames, and she's careless enough about it that even Arthur's caught it.

"Johanna," Eames says, with a wide smile. He's not gritting his teeth, no matter how he wants to. "Lovely to see you again. How goes the job so far?"

She has the audacity to give him a look of approval, as though he gave a shit about her fucking tests. "Wonderful," she says. "Letty, dear, can we do the briefing now?"

Brighton ignores her utterly. Arthur coughs and says, "Uh, Brighton?"

At that she looks up. "Sure."

Senator Morton, their client, is a man of widely recognized talents and even more widely recognized corruption. They're working to see if that corruption can be broadened enough to serve their clients. An honest politician is one who stays bought, but their clients are offering a tantalizing price.

And if they can find a stick for their clients to wave along with the carrot, that would just be gravy.

"Do we know anything of possible defenses?" Johanna says. Her tone is testing, as though she expects a certain answer.

"He's not used any of the usual government suppliers," Brighton says. "He could've gotten someone off the tracks – Eames?" This in response to the grimace Eames was making no attempt to hide.

"Morton's a politician, and he was a soldier before. He's not going to be so bloody careless."

Johanna says, "He could be keeping it quiet."

"Whatever for?" Eames taps a pen against his lip for emphasis, and also because it makes Brighton's eyes un- and then refocus. "Half the point of militarization is intimidation. It _can_ be overcome, obviously. It just makes it likelier that louts such as ourselves will look for an easier way in."

Brighton and Johanna exchange glances. Arthur opens his mouth, then shuts it when Eames pleasantly says, "Yes, Arthur, your input?"

"Never mind," Arthur mutters, and Eames sets his pen down decisively.

"Right," he says. "Onwards."

~~

Best laid plans, etc. etc. - long story short, they're not inside Morton's mind for five minutes by dream reckoning before goddamned snipers appear. On the bloody _hotel ceiling_. Eames' pleasure with this job is diminishing very rapidly.

"You said he wasn't militarized!" Eames shouts at Brighton over the gunfire.

Brighton, pale and wide-eyed, said, "I said he wasn't militarized by the standard companies! You were the one who – " A bullet hits her, and she gasps and vanishes. Eames curses and runs on; shifting blame won't actually help them any.

He needs to get to Arthur, who is the dreamer. Eames' role in this extraction is already buggered. The best he can do is help Arthur survive and hope Johanna somehow pulls it off by herself. Normally, Brighton would do it, but Brighton's out of the dream.

It occurs to Eames that distracting her may not have been the wisest move on his account. Well, no helping it now. On he goes.

When Eames finds him, Arthur is holding his own rather nicely against a team of faceless goons wielding machetes. Eames stabs the nearest one in the back – all their own firearms have turned worse than useless in the dream.

Arthur darts a startled glance at him, and freezes. Only for the barest moment, but it's long enough for one of the projections to lean in and slash Arthur's forearm clean off. Arthur slashes back, disposing of the projection before staring at the blood spurting out of his elbow.

There are only two more projections. Eames gets rid of them rapidly, then works his tie off to tie it around Arthur's arm. A shitty tourniquet is better than none. Arthur's pale but otherwise looking surprisingly well for someone who’s just had a limb removed, dream or no dream.

"Are we going to look for Johanna?" Arthur says, raising his remaining hand and dropping it before it touches his still-bleeding stump.

"We're going to look for somewhere defensible," Eames says. Arthur gives him a tight nod and waits for Eames to move, following him closely.

Eames considers ducking into one of the rooms, but Arthur grips his shoulder. "Projections can come through any door," he reminds Eames. "Most rooms have a bathroom."

The best thing they find is a tall desk hugging a corner. Eames hoists a sniper rifle he picked up on the way. "Think you can handle this?"

Arthur frowns. "A little help?"

With Eames' assistance, they have Arthur propped up against the desk with his finger on the trigger. The gun is a lovely sleek thing, no recoil to it at all, literally a soldier's dream. Hopefully Arthur can shoot it without losing his balance.

For himself, Eames makes do with knives. A lot of knives. Aiming in dreams is really just a matter of self assurance: he could hardly miss.

After they shoot down the first incoming wave of projections, Eames helps Arthur reload and considers venturing forth for more knives. He glances at Arthur before he does – good, he's holding up well, gaze a little glassy but otherwise looking alert.

As a matter of fact, he's frowning in rather more concentration than Eames believes the situation warrants. Eames nudges Arthur carefully. "What's got you all thoughtful?"

"Morton," Arthur says. Quiet, but not hesitant. "I know him from somewhere. I think I've seen him before."

"Yes," Eames says, speaking slowly for effect's sake. "He's a senator. On national television, perhaps?"

"Fuck off, I don't even watch television." Arthur shifts, irritable. "I've seen him in person. I'm pretty sure I ran into him during my service."

This line of thought is cut off by the arrival of more projections. One of them manages to nearly decapitate Eames, who ends up with a nasty gash on his neck. This does not contribute to his already diminished good cheer.

"What do you mean, you ran into him?" Eames says in a lull between attacks. There are more projections coming down the corridors. Eames is going to run out of knives soon. "In the army, you mean? He was in bloody dreamshare?"

"I thought Brighton would know!" Arthur's getting agitated. Eames absently puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him. "I started asking about it, and you said – "

Eames ignored him to play petty power games. He winces. "All right, fair enough. Mind the – "

"Yes, I see it," Arthur says, bending over his gun and taking down three projections in quick succession. Eames tries hard not to be charmed.

They last two more waves before they run out of ammo. Bloody realistic-minded marks. Arthur's casting his eyes about for more when Eames sighs and gets the knife. "Come here," he says. "Let's do this quick."

"No, let's wait for the signal from Johanna," Arthur says.

The signal hasn't come and Eames is rather certain it won't be coming. "If you want to die painfully instead of quickly, that's your choice," he says, "but I know which way out I'm taking."

In the end, Arthur grimaces and leans back, letting Eames slit his throat. And Eames' concentration is shot to hell in any case, so he finds himself staring at Arthur's blood vivid on his hands, engrossed enough that he doesn't notice the projection behind him until it sticks him in the back with a machete.

~~

Eames would quite like to stew and froth as he wakes up, but as the door is being kicked down by Morton's security, he doesn't have time for that. He goes for his gun instead. His first move, instinctive, is to aim at the bodyguards. But that's stupid, that's dream logic taking over. There's three of them, and whomever Eames doesn't hit will hit him in the following minute.

Eames aims his weapon at the senator. "Nobody move or he gets it," he growls.

The bodyguards freeze, but the man in the lead says, "This isn't going to help you. There's already backup on the way. You're surrounded."

"Are we," Eames says, pleasantly. "Then I suppose we'll just have a nice long chat then – Brighton, now!"

Brighton, who's been hiding behind the door, puts a gun to the back of the first bodyguard's head. Eames switches his aim to the man in the lead. Arthur leaps, snake-quick, and has the third guard on the ground, pinned.

"Excellent," Johanna says, her hand coming to rest on Eames' shoulder once again. Eames really ought to do something about that old bat. He dearly hopes she's got a gun trained on the senator. Morton's meant to be sleeping, but it would fit right well with the rest of this buggered-up job if he decided to suddenly wake up and defeat them all in a rousing display of Old Man Kung Fu.

On the floor, Arthur grunts when the man he's subdued turns out not to be quite as subdued as expected. There's a short tussle, and then the man's lying back with his head tilted at an unnatural angle. Arthur gets up, dusts his trousers and sets about wrapping up their equipment.

"Right," Eames says. Since they've started, they might as well go through with it. He puts a bullet through the lead man's head. Brighton shoots her own hostage and nods at Eames before clearing off. Normally the point stays to clean up and gather the equipment, but the PASIV belongs to Johanna and their cover is shot anyway. The only hope they have is to run fast and hope nobody remembers their faces.

Eames is about to do the same when he happens to see Arthur turning white and all but falling down. On a whim he doesn't want to inspect too closely, Eames grabs Arthur's arm and drags him behind him, out of Morton's shrink's office, down the stairs and into the crowded street.

~~

"This is so fucking embarrassing," Arthur mutters, wincing as Eames disinfects the cut on his arm. It's almost exactly at the same place Arthur's arm was lopped off in the dream.

"How so?" Eames says, distracted, frowning at the cut. It'll need a couple of stitches, definitely. They're in the hotel room Eames rented during the job. He always makes sure he books those for an extra day, because he can spare the cash and you never know when you might need somewhere to retreat.

It's a relief, knowing there's a time and place to catch his breath. It makes Eames almost giddy, and certainly flippant.

"Twice in six months I get like this." Arthur's thigh flexes, but his arm is completely still where Eames is holding it. Eames hums approval. "Both times with you around. I swear I'm not like this normally."

Eames looks up. Arthur's eyes are wide, his expression earnest. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of Eames. "It's not that bad if you are," Eames says. "Do I need to remind you you're still new to this?"

"No, you really don't," Arthur snaps. "I get reminded often enough." His tone goes down to moody at that. Eames busies himself looking for surgical thread. "I should be better than this," Arthur continues, almost to himself.

"You will be." Eames is matter-of-fact in his assessment. "You need time, that's all." He gives Arthur his best lopsided grin. “None of this was your fault, was it? Just bad luck.”

Arthur looks up, holding Eames’ gaze. “It kind of is, actually.” Eames raises an eyebrow. “I knew Morton from somewhere. And I knew Brighton didn't look at all the possiblities. I should’ve said something.”

“To whom?” Eames counters. “If Johanna cared about it, she would’ve asked Brighton herself. Likely she would’ve told you to keep your mouth shut and mind your own part of the job.”

“I could’ve told you.” Arthur’s voice is steady, not betraying the tiny tremor in his hands. “You could’ve planned your part better.”

Eames pushes down on his arm, careful. “It wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. This is what happens when you have someone careless on point.” Or easily distracted, or easily intimidated. Which amounts to the same thing, really.

Arthur’s quiet while Eames finishes taping his arm. When Eames lets go of his arm, stepping away to critically look at his work, Arthur grabs his wrist. “So what do I do to avoid working with careless point men?”

“First, avoid careless team-leaders,” Eames says. This was the first lesson he’d learned, and the hardest. “If you can’t, do your own background checks. It looks impossible at first, but everyone has to start somewhere. Talk to people you work with, people you have worked with before, people you might work with. Talk to criminals and to businessmen, anyone you can.”

“And databases,” Arthur murmurs, something lighting up in his eyes. “And networks. Technology speaks pretty loudly these days, Mr. Eames.”

“Not my style, but there you go,” Eames says, oddly pleased. “You can’t know until you ask, is the thing.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Arthur hops off the table, brushing dust off his suit and grinning at Eames. “Hey. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Eames waves him off with a small gesture.

As soon as Arthur disappears, Eames leans against the table, feeling suddenly weak, as though all the words he just spilled out were a necessary foundation, something that shored Eames up until he finally realized it wasn’t there at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Eames crouches at the windowsill and waits for a clear shot. Either at the guards or at the man sitting tied to the chair, it doesn't really signify. It's just a matter of time before Arthur cracks, and by that time there'll be no choice but to put a bullet in him.

It'll be a kindness, really, by that point. Eames had to slit Johanna's throat for her, a week ago, and her eyes were wide and grateful. The rest of her – Eames doesn't want to think about that.

So far the guards haven't been more than normally dreadful – beatings, electricity, that type of things. A few broken bones, Eames thinks, but nothing that will maim or deform Arthur for life. Arthur's taking it well so far, Eames thinks. He's not actively defiant, which is the classic rookie mistake. But neither is he attempting to be cooperative. Instead, he seems to turn inward, his gaze unfocused, far off.

He's doing a good job. Eames rather hopes he won't have to kill him after all.

The problem isn't what Arthur knows about Eames, which is barely more than a name and a phone number that's no longer active in any case. None of those on the Morton job knew much of Eames. Even Brighton, when she warned him Morton was after them, had to pass the word via several mutual acquaintances.

Arthur does, however, know Ford. He’s her bloody protégé, there’s nothing to be done about it. He knows ways to contact her and the circles where she hangs out, who she trusts and where she gets her info.

And Ford knows Eames, in spite of everything Eames has tried to do about it. She’s smart and she’s got her resources, but Arthur has all the chinks in her armor, and Morton’s men (or the men Morton’s sent after them, rather, they’re nothing so official as being in his employ) are thorough. Arthur knows Ford can get to Eames, and it’s only a question of how much he can take before Morton’s henchmen know it too.

One of the men drives a fist into Arthur’s stomach. Arthur curls up as much as his restraints allow, grunting, and stays still.

Eames could shoot him now. He’s not a crack shot, but Arthur’s near enough and a still target. Then Eames could run, back to the car he’d left in the woods, drive away leaving Morton’s men none the wiser.

He could shoot the henchmen instead, but that would leave him outnumbered twelve to one. These are not numbers that appeal to Eames. There is only one Arthur, and one clean headshot would have Eames free of this entire mess.

Except that Arthur hasn’t said anything yet. If Eames were to go around shooting anyone who presented a risk to his wellbeing, there wouldn’t be anyone in the dreamshare business left alive. It would be most dreadfully dull.

It won’t be long until Arthur makes a slip. Eames won’t shoot until Arthur’s made mention of Ford. Eames can stay that long, he’s chosen his position to be invisible to the guards inside. He’s not in any rush. He flicks his gun’s safety on and settles in for the wait.

~~

It’s getting dark. Eames is beginning to wish he’d worn something warmer.

Arthur’s been utterly silent the last two hours, not so much as a gasp out of him. There was a scream, earlier on, when one of Morton’s men took his broken leg and wrenched it. It made something curl unpleasantly in the pit of Eames’ stomach, but he ignored it. He didn’t get to where he was in life by being squeamish.

It’s been pretty quiet since then, to the degree that Eames wondered if Arthur has lost consciousness altogether. Arthur’s captors seemed to share the same concern, splashing him with water until he raised his head and looked them square in the eyes.

Eames can barely catch Arthur’s expression from where he’s sitting, but it doesn’t look particularly compliant.

To be honest Eames is starting to get impatient. Not only has Arthur not mentioned Ford yet, he hasn’t mentioned any of them, not Johanna nor Brighton nor Eames himself. He hasn’t said anything, in fact, since Eames arrived at the scene.

Maybe he’s already spilled it all. Maybe they’ve wrung him dry already and are now breaking him down for a lark. But Morton doesn’t strike Eames as inefficiently cruel; likely he’d just have Arthur killed by that point.

Above Eames’ head, three stars shine in the darkness, and Eames realizes Arthur isn’t talking, isn’t going to talk.

~~

When in doubt, hold still and wait for further evidence. This is a truism that has gotten Eames through more rough times than others he claimed more loudly to live by, such as “improvise and bluff louder than the other party” or even “remember you’re never unarmed”.

The henchmen inside leave. There are only two left, guarding the abandoned warehouse. Eames slowly gets up from his crouch, working the kinks in his muscles. Two to one is still worse odds than he’d like, but it’s better than nothing.

He drops to the ground, grimacing when he hears leaves rustling under his feet. He stays still and waits for a sound, but nothing comes except for the distant voices of the guards on duty. He moves all the way to the front of the building, masked by the bushes growing wild there.

“ - got it for Betty,” says the guard closer to Eames into his radio. “Yeah, I know. Still, better than - “

Eames tunes him out, cursing silently. If he shoots the rest of the company will know something was up. He can emulate a man’s voice decently, but not one he’s heard for only two fractured sentences. And in any case, they’ll all probably come back immediately at the sound of gunshots. Eames can’t afford that.

He’s back at the window, easing the glass pane out of its frame before it even occurs to him what he’s trying to do.

 _So I’ve finally gone mad_ , he thinks, rappelling down a rope into the warehouse. _Wonder why it took me this long._

He pauses when his eyes, adjusting to the low lighting of the faint emergency lamp left beside the chair, catch sight of Arthur.

Without meaning to, Eames winces. He’s been the victim of similar interrogation techniques, and the marks he sees on Arthur's skin make his own prickle in pained memory.

The handcuffs securing Arthur to the chair are a joke, Eames has them picked in under a minute. He can't believe Arthur didn't do them himself. Eames fully intends to bitch Ford out for leaving it out of Arthur's training.

Once he's got them off, Arthur stirs. Eames gestures at him to stand up before he remembers about the broken leg, but Arthur tries anyway. Eames picks him up before he can make himself scream, the little idiot, then looks doubtfully at the window and the rope dangling down. No hope in hell Arthur can climb it.

"Can you hang on to me?" Eames can barely hear himself. He very much hopes the guards can't hear him either.

"I can try," Arthur says, muzzy and a little too loud. Eames freezes, then breathes out when no reaction comes from outside.

He ends up hoisting Arthur onto his back, reusing the handcuffs to secure Arthur's arms and using some excess rope to tie his thighs in front of Eames. He ties the thigh rope to the handcuffs to prevent Arthur's weight from strangling him if Arthur passes out.

Arthur gasps when Eames tightens the knot, even though it's high above the fracture. Still, Eames has had enough broken bones that he can sympathize, and Arthur's really being more than reasonably good about this. He even tries to cling to Eames as they climb outside the warehouse.

He loses consciousness before they make it to the roof, but it's not like Eames hasn't planned for that.

When he comes back down, Arthur's lack of consciousness is actually useful, letting Eames carry him across the shoulder to the car without worrying too much about jostling him. Eames knows he should be careful – no point, after all this effort, in letting a broken rib pierce Arthur's lung or something similar – and he's trying. Even so, it’s easier this way.

~~

Arthur comes awake on the road, barely, turning his head and muttering something before passing out again.

"Yes, we really do need to stop meeting like this," Eames says. At the next turn in the road, though, he brakes and checks that Arthur's no worse off than he was before. Broken ribs, punctured lungs, wasted effort, etc. etc.

Not like anybody's behind him anyway. He's driving on a winding dirt track through the forest, to the safe house he knows Ford has there. Eames isn't supposed to know about it, but given that it's Ford's fault he's in this mess to begin with, he feels well within his rights to use it.

Ford keeps her safe houses well-stocked in emergency supplies, fortunately. There's a clean sheet Eames can put on the large dinner table before he sets Arthur up on it. Arthur's stirring again, so Eames is doing his best to be careful.

He has Arthur settled down when Arthur blinks and reaches up. Eames recoils. If Arthur's pain-muddled brain thinks Eames is one of Morton's men, this might not be pretty. But Arthur's hand only brushes Eames' face, weak and uncoordinated. Eames can feel it leaving a streak of warm blood across his cheek.

"Hey," Arthur mouths. "Eames?" Or that's what Eames thinks he's trying to say. He might be wrong.

"Yeah." Eames swallows, and swallows again, feeling a little dizzy. He must've gotten dehydrated. "You sleep, yeah? I'll patch you up, no worries. Just sleep."

He sees Arthur's muscles tensing, bunching. It would be funny if it weren't sad, how much sense this makes to Eames, how even at the last Arthur can't believe he's safe, has to go down fighting because it's better than lying down to die.

Then Arthur blinks, his eyes clearing. "Eames," he says, and goes pliant under him.

Eames lets a breath out, and goes to hunt for Ford's medicinal supplies. He really fucking hopes she's got more than a bloody first-aid kit.

~~

Ford, it turns out, has many splendid things, including a supply of the very best drugs, some conveniently tailored for Arthur's use. Heartwarming, really, that she'd taken the care. Eames sets up a drip for Arthur and gets to the long, gruesome task of putting him back together.

Setting bones is hard, tiring work with only himself to do it, but needs must. It's not the best job and Eames knows it, but it's decent enough provided Arthur gets to a proper professional in time. Luckily there's just the leg – Arthur's ribs need taping and there's some nasty business done to his left hand, but nothing broken there.

After that, it's a bunch of suturing, applying a crapload of disinfectant and bandaging. Arthur snores through the entire thing as though he hasn't a care in the world. Eames snips a bit of thread from the last stitch in the gash in Arthur's forehead, and leans back to survey the overall effect.

Arthur's looking cleaner, at least, no more dried blood on his face, the mottled bruises standing out in sharp relief against pale skin. He looks – cold, actually, and Eames goes to fetch a blanket before he thinks better of it.

He doesn't want to undo all his hard work, so he's very careful taking Arthur in his arms, moving him to the bed. Arthur comes awake for a minute, clutching at Eames' arm as he's putting it down.

"Hush, there." Eames puts his hands on Arthur's shoulders, mindful of the bruises there. "You're all right. Just sleep now."

Arthur's grip tightens. He pulls Eames close, trying to speak but only huffing a breath into his ear.

Eames tries to disentangle himself. He fails, although in honesty he's not trying very hard. He comes to lie on the bed instead, on the other side, piling the covers over Arthur. It's easy to catch a chill when suffering from blood loss, Eames knows.

Arthur coughs. He tries to sit up. A ragged cry escapes his throat and he falls back down, head hitting the pillow with a _thump_. His face twists, and Eames leans up, alarmed.

"What hurts?" he says, then curses himself for an idiot since the answer is obviously _everything_. "D'you want more painkillers? Water?"

Arthur's expression lights up with urgency at the last, so Eames gets up again. He has to help Arthur drink it, since he can neither hold the glass nor sit up to drink. He's got one hand on the back of Arthur's head, supporting him, and his fingers curl in the damp hair as he brings the glass to Arthur's lips.

Arthur falls asleep soon after, his mouth still wet. Eames shakes himself when he realizes he's been staring at it for minutes on end. It's nearly dawn, and Eames has been keyed up for days now, worrying about Arthur –

He blinks, catching that thought, then letting it go intentionally. He's tired and not thinking clearly. He ought to rest. Ought to go somewhere safe. He stands up, stretches, stumbles to the car while sending Ford an SMS. Arthur's her protégé, let _her_ take care of him.

When he reaches the car he leans against it, suddenly winded. He scrubs at his face, pausing when he feels the tackiness of dried blood there.

The cabin looks so bare from where he's standing. There's not even a lock on the door. Anyone could waltz right in.

Eames goes back inside, composing another text to Ford as he goes. _Bring some tea when you come. Your kitchen is a disgrace._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a tiny bit of noncon-ish imagery in this section - please tread with care. (Also some explicit Eames/Other.)

This isn't like Eames.

There's an odd discontent simmering under his skin which he can't seem to get rid of. He hasn't taken a job in weeks; everything he's offered seems lacking, boring, tedious and pointless. All the teams are either untrustworthy, worthless failures, or both.

Worst of all, he can't find Arthur anywhere.

Well, look, a man who can hold his own under stress like that, that's a man worth having. Plus Eames has been hearing good things about Arthur's prowess in his new vocation as a point man, which is even better, as a good point man can make or break a job.

"I can't tell you where he is because I don't _know_ ," Ford says when Eames breaks down and calls her. Even the promise of several lucrative, interesting jobs fails to move her. Granted, Eames just pulled those jobs out of his arse, but it's not like she knows that. It's not like Eames can't find something just as worthy given time and incentive, anyway. "I can hook you up with other jobs," she says, almost conciliatory.

"Yes, because the last time you did that ended so well," Eames bites out. He regrets the words the moment they're out of his mouth, but they're out nevertheless.

Ford lets out a long breath. "I'll pretend you didn't say that," she says, evenly. "In return, I won't point out how much of _that_ disaster was your fault. Okay?"

Eames doesn't answer. She's right and he knows it, but he's never apologized to her yet and doesn't see a reason to break that pattern.

"Eames," Ford says, and her voice isn't unkind. "Go get drunk, go get laid, and when you recover call me and I'll hook you up with some work. Arthur's good, but he's not as good as you make him out to be. I don't know why you got all hung up on him, but you need a distraction."

Eames hangs up the phone without a word. He throws himself down on his couch, sighing explosively because if he can't be a drama queen in the comfort of his own home, where can he be?

He stays there until evening, chain-smoking, watching bad telly and drinking even worse vodka. Come evening he gets up, showers thoroughly, puts on a clean shirt and some cologne, and goes prowling. Bugger Ford for knowing him so well.

~~

Pulling a bloke these days is so easy as to almost be disappointing. All Eames has to do is stand there in a tight t-shirt and someone or other will come to him as if drawn by bloody magnets.

It means he can afford to be picky, which has the unpleasant corollary that he _wants_ to be picky. He's not sure what would settle this feeling in the pit of his stomach, the low anxious murmuring of his thoughts.

He tries at first to pick by body type, smiling at tall, athletic, dark-haired men. But the initial chat warms nothing in him; he watches them and sees nothing but risk, tired lines and venues of escape.

Going home to finish that vodka, have a wank and collapse into bed is looking more appealing by the minute. Eames is about to settle his tab and leave when someone slides into the chair next to his.

The guy in the chair is short and wiry, auburn-haired with a dusting of freckles across his nose. Not really Eames' type, except that he grins and asks, "Got a light?" and Eames thinks he might as well give the evening one last shot.

"Michael." The guy puts out his hand to shake.

Eames shakes it, sees it take, sees the warmth seeping into Michael's smile. Then it's replaced by – not wariness, precisely, but an alertness that strikes a chord in Eames. "Jack," he says.

Michael rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. "Sure you are, Jack."

Bloody American accents, Eames wishes he didn't find them so charming. "I can be someone else if you'd rather."

This makes Michael's expression light up. He looks Eames up and down, a mock-serious frown on his face. "No," he says at length. "I think you're good like this."

Eames asks for the bill, and they're off.

~~

They go to Michael's apartment, which is a short taxi drive away. Michael's hand finds its way into Eames' lap, and Eames lets it stay there, warming his skin through his trousers. He's half-hard already, just from the warmth of human proximity.

"Been a while?" Michael's hand grips a little harder for emphasis.

"Bloody ages," Eames says, letting his head hang back. Michael darts a look to the front and rubs the bulge in Eames' crotch, quick and furtive. Eames suppresses a groan but lets his hips buck upwards to show willing.

Michael presses him against the wall just outside his apartment, standing on tiptoes to kiss Eames, skilled and surprisingly gentle. Eames pushes him off. "No need for that," he says, a little embarrassed at how brusque he's being. But Christ, all he wants is to get off, he doesn't have _time_ for this –

But he does; Eames isn't going anywhere, has no urgent business. He's just not all that interested in standing here and kissing this guy.

"Jeez, someone's impatient," Michael says, unlocking his door. "I mean, I get that. Dry spells are a bitch."

"Put that mouth to better use," Eames says as soon as they're indoors, laying his hands on Michael's shoulders.

Michael smirks. "Thought you'd never ask," and he goes down to his knees.

He's good – better than good, even, for all that Eames finds himself dissecting his technique rather than enjoying himself. It has been long, yes, but not so long that Eames has forgotten how to relax and enjoy himself. He hopes.

He looks down on his prick sliding in and out of Michael's mouth, hard and wet, and that almost makes it good, fuck, heat and sucking, and all Eames wants is to turn them around and pin Michael to the wall, fuck his face until tears stream out of his eyes and he's struggling –

Eames freezes. He's going soft in Michael's mouth. Michael pulls him into a few more sucks before giving up. He looks up at Eames, distinctly unimpressed.

"Right, sorry," Eames mutters, and makes his escape.

~~

Because the universe well and truly has it in for Eames, it starts raining as soon as he leaves the building. Eames stands there, waiting for a taxi, feeling more pathetic by the second. Bugger this, he should've just stayed home and got drunk.

A car stops, but it isn't a taxi. Eames, by instinct, takes a step back.

"Get in before you get pneumonia," Arthur says. Against his better judgment, Eames does. "And buckle up," Arthur adds. "Safety first."

Arthur speeds off before Eames can come up with a Stranger Danger quip, which is just as well.

~~

It's not until the first stoplight they break for that Eames notices Arthur's wincing and holding his side. "What did you do to yourself?" he says, reaching for Arthur without thinking of it.

"Nothing," Arthur says. He's gritting his teeth but not batting Eames' hands away, which is what Eames would have expected. "I think you meant, 'What did Ambrose Corp’s goons do to me'. They shot at me and then didn't pay me for the job," he adds, when Eames looks at him, alarmed.

"Bastards," Eames says. It comes out with rather more conviction than he meant.

"Well, I did take an offer from their rivals," Arthur says, unfazed. "It's just a scratch, anyway. I just need it seen to before I take a plane to Sydney."

"So that's where you've been holed up? Ford didn't know." Eames winces as soon as he speaks. He ought to just bloody shut up; he must be drunker than he realized. That accounts for the equipment failure of earlier, too. Very neat explanation all around; Eames decides to adopt it for the rest of the evening.

"Ford doesn't know everything." A tiny smile plays on Arthur's lips. Eames, still clinging to his plausible drunkenness, allows himself to stare at it, to _want_. "Lucky for me, though, she knew where you were."

Eames digests this, wariness settling cold in his stomach. "How did she know I was here?" He barely keeps from turning his head to see if they're being followed.

Arthur snorts. "Here in the city, I mean. I had to follow your trail from the bar. Nice date you got, by the way."

"Thank you for your approval," Eames mutters. Then he rethinks Arthur's statements. "So what did you want me for?" It comes out rather belligerent, which Eames – ludicrously – regrets when he sees Arthur wincing.

"First aid," Arthur says, his smile crooked, faltering. "Apparently it's a pattern now."

"Patterns aren't bad," Eames says, nonsensical. Of course patterns are bad, patterns are predictable and lead you to getting caught, they're the downfall of the thinking criminal.

"I guess this one's okay," Arthur allows. His smile is restored, and Eames has to admit he's relieved.

~~

Eames was worried Arthur might be overly stoic, but the bullet graze really is just a scratch. It doesn't even need sutures, just bandaging. Arthur's perched on Eames' kitchen table, regaling him with tales of the job as he works.

It's quickly done this time, barely anything to do. Eames finds himself working slowly, methodical, hands lingering on Arthur's bare skin.

"Ford told me you used to be a medic," Arthur says as Eames is finishing up. He’s looking down. He might be avoiding Eames’ eyes, but Eames still has a bit of drunk-giddiness lingering in him, and he’d rather think Arthur’s staring at his hands. "In the army or something."

The various mercenary organizations for which Eames had worked could be called armies, Eames supposes. "Among other things," he says, taping the bandage in place. There, he's set, nothing more to do. He stands up straight.

Arthur's still on his table, showing no intention to leave. Eames, at a loss, offers tea.

Arthur smiles. "Thanks." He remains sitting where he is, swinging his legs.

While the water boils, Eames realizes Arthur made an opening; moreover, that Arthur expects him to fill that opening. The idea is eminently silly – Eames extracts information, he doesn't hand it out.

But Arthur's sitting there, looking at him expectantly, and Eames says, "Mostly just in the field. Emergencies and the like. Never did anything fancy."

"That's good, isn't it?" Arthur says. "More useful."

"I suppose." Eames busies himself with the tea, not making eye contact. He's – nervous, of all the odd things, ill at ease. He has someone in his home – not a safe house or a rented apartment, but a place Eames actually owns, one he's gone to some lengths to secure.

He hasn't even thought twice about bringing Arthur over. It occurs to Eames that he should be worried about this.

Eames startles when Arthur's hand settles on his shoulder, warm and almost hesitant. "I could go now," Arthur says, soft, "if you want me to. But, and correct me if I'm wrong, I don't think you want me to."

Eames turns. Arthur's smiling at him, standing just inside his personal space. "You're not wrong," Eames says, and he takes Arthur's face in his hands, kisses him over and over until the kettle boils dry.


	5. Chapter 5

The Cobbs came with Ford's recommendation. Eames still bears her a little grudge – all else aside, she should have known better than to recommend Johanna to him – but Arthur looked at him with an eyebrow cocked and Eames folded, as he does sadly often nowadays.

Eames is coming to regret this now, seeing as he's got a gun pointing at his face. Eames hates it when that happens.

On the other hand, it’s hardly the Cobbs’ fault. They’re not even awake, the poor buggers, still sleeping the sleep of the criminally unjust while Eames has to face the distressingly shaky gun in front of him.

“I don’t want trouble,” says the man, also in front of him and also rather shaky. “Just give me your money.”

Eames might well have given the poor thing his wallet just to be done with it, but the man apparently got a sudden dose of courage because he’s pointing at the PASIV device. “And that. I want that too.”

Well, no. That’s their PASIV device, his and Arthur’s, and Eames worked too hard to steal the bloody thing in the first place to give it away to someone just because they’ve got a gun aimed on him.

Possibly years of being shot in dreams have eroded Eames’ fear of firearms to a distressing degree. The man’s eyes widen, his hands flail and the gun ends up going off, a bullet embedding itself in the wall.

“Right,” Eames says, and goes to take that gun off the mugger before somebody gets hurt. The bloke’s shaking when Eames gets to him. He’s rail-thin, more pathetic than threatening to any real degree. Eames disarms him and pins him to the wall without breaking a sweat.

Then he feels the cold muzzle of a gun digging into his back, and bites his tongue. Just his fucking luck.

“Let him go,” says a low, feminine voice behind him. Eames retreats, hands held up, because the first order of business is always to do what the person holding the gun says. The would-be mugger staggers out of Eames’ reach.

“I want the device,” the voice says, and this is not a druggie jonesing for a fix. This is someone who knows what they want and that they’re going to get it.

Eames resists the urge to close his eyes and bang his head against the wall. “Theft by proxy is a delicate business,” he says. “You ought to hire professionals, not trust it to bloody amateurs.”

His assailant snorts. “Whatever. Are you going to unplug them all nice-like or am I going to shoot you and do it myself?”

Eames freezes. He can’t just unplug them. There’s a sedative in the formula, some newfangled development that the Cobbs swear by - it stabilizes dreaming at deeper levels, it sharpens the details, it makes tea and farts gold. Eames doesn’t care, except that it also means if they leave the dream ahead of time - by dying, or by unhooking them from the PASIV - they stand a chance of permanent mental damage.

This sounded - well, not exactly fine and dandy even in theory, except that it was just a test experiment. No mark, no client, supposedly perfectly safe. Eames shouldn’t have agreed to it - hasn’t, in fact, which is why he was sitting watch over Arthur and the Cobbs while they went under. But he ought to have told Arthur not to do it, either. Let the Cobbs get lost in dreams by themselves.

“On the count of three,” the woman behind him says, and Eames closes his eyes. A thousand rapid scenarios run through his mind, most prominently the obvious one. Do what she says, hand her the PASIV and leave. Eames can steal a new one: no machine, never mind how shiny and useful, is worth his life. The Cobbs may be reduced to vegetables, which would be tragic, but they are both adults. They knew the risks, knew them better than Eames.

And there’s Arthur. Eames’ thought process stops at this point.

“Two,” the woman says. Did she say three? Did Eames miss that, or did she just cheat?

It doesn’t matter. Eames stays still, furious at himself but unable to do anything else. He knew this was coming, this was bloody inevitable. Say you’ll love someone unto death and sooner or later you will be offered an opportunity to test that statement.

Affection’s a bloody chink in one’s armor. Eames couldn’t afford it. He should have thought of that sooner, but then he always knew he’ll die in debt.

“One,” she says, long and drawn out. Eames fancies he can hear the creak of her finger squeezing the trigger.

“Wait!” Eames yelps. The gun’s muzzle digs between his shoulderblades. “I’ll disconnect them.” He feels something flushing within him, heavy like guilt. He’s bartering away the Cobbs’ sanity, even though they’ve done him no wrong. But there’s not like there’s anything he can do for them now.

Eames turns slowly as the gun withdraws. The woman behind him is bland and unfamiliar; Eames memorizes her face before he remembers he’ll never get a chance to use that information. He hopes Arthur will remember to do that, assuming that Arthur escapes. Eames has taught him a great deal over the last few months, and he can only hope it all sticks.

He walks to Arthur’s lawn chair, purposefully stumbling, catching himself on the seat and tipping the thing over so Arthur comes out of the dream. Arthur’s quick, he can escape while Eames has the woman’s attention.

Arthur’s eyes flicker open. He looks at Eames, leaping to his feet smoothly. Eames can see his path to the door, clear and free. If Arthur runs now, he can take it.

Everything moves slow for a moment, as though caught in honey. Their assailant is still looking at Eames, and she’s moving to pull the trigger. Eames is still falling, out of balance. He’ll never get out of her range in time. Arthur is running.

Arthur is running in the wrong bloody direction, straight at the woman.

Eames would shout at him if he could spare the breath. As it is, by the time he finds his balance again Arthur has her on the floor, savagely twisting electric tape around her wrists. Eames has no idea where he even _got_ electric tape.

“Fuck,” Eames says with emphasis, and collapses on one of the chairs.

~~

The Cobbs, when they wake up, turn very interesting colors. The wife apologizes profusely and fusses over Eames’ minor bruises. The husband mumbles and looks down at his shoes a lot. It’s all very embarrassing and Eames is very glad to be done with it.

They come home that day bruised but none the worse for wear, Arthur smirking the way he does when he was right and Eames was wrong. Which makes no bloody sense, since what happened was _everything Eames has warned against from the beginning_.

But when Eames says that, Arthur only points out that yes, his fears have come to pass, “And then we kicked ass, the end.” Arthur kicks off his shoes for emphasis. He’s pleasantly rumpled, hair a lovely mess, his sleeves rolled up. Eames kneels in front of him and unbuttons his waistcoat, moving to work on his shirt once he’s done with that.

“Still. An ounce of prevention.” Eames pushes the waistcoat off Arthur. He’s starting to push the shirt off as well before hesitating and leaving it there. Eames is still bouncing off the walls, unable to latch to a consistent train of thought.

“Don’t you mean twenty-eight grams?” Arthur says, probably just to be a prick. Eames growls and kisses him. Arthur hums into his mouth.

They stay like that for several long minutes before Eames’ hands start wandering. Arthur captures them, kisses Eames’ wrist.

“Go shower,” he says. “I’ll wait for you.”

Eames goes. Arthur’s trained him well. This line of thought should really be less comforting than it is.

~~

When Eames comes back, Arthur’s on the couch, naked but for his unbuttoned shirt, stretched out with his arms crossed above his head.

Eames wants to run to him, but he walks, purposefully slowing himself. There’s still something clamoring in him, something confused and half-panicked and uncertain. But Eames knows how to put that to rest, nowadays. He starts by putting his mouth on Arthur’s, just barely touching, and seals it by tying Arthur’s wrists together with his tie.

He runs his fingers over Arthur’s face. Normally Arthur doesn't let Eames do this, be so careful with him, but right now he's lying loose-limbed and fucking _grinning_ at Eames, looking so fucking happy that Eames doesn't know what to do with himself.

He kisses Arthur, lightly at first, curling his hands around Arthur’s shoulder, settling himself over him. Something builds up inside him and his kisses turn to bites because he just can't contain it, turning almost violent in his adoration, and Arthur opens right up to him, spreads his legs and arches his back like _enough_ isn't a word in any of the languages he speaks.

Eames sucks at his skin, voracious, biting his thighs and his pecs just below his nipples, taking Arthur's balls to cradle in his mouth, heedless of the hair he'll need to spit out later. Arthur lets out little sounds that kill Eames, sounds that are like pain and like pleasure and like everything Eames has wanted, ever.

He spreads Arthur’s arse open to lick at him there because it makes Arthur open his mouth and _beg_ , beautifully. Normally he’d be clutching at Eames’ hair, shoving into him, just as forceful in his own passion as Eames is in his. But Eames has Arthur’s legs over his shoulders and Arthur’s wrists tied together. Arthur could find leverage, probably, but he’s not trying, content to make himself helpless under Eames.

“I, please,” Arthur says, broken into incoherence, and something in Eames melts. “ _Please._ ”

“Oh, darling.” Eames sits up, looking at Arthur who has gone pliant at last. He runs his hands over Arthur’s flank, traces two fingers around the curve of Arthur’s skull, down his cheekbones. Presses his lips to Arthur’s solar plexus, keeps them there to lap up the steady beat of his heart.

Arthur rubs his ankle against Eames’, arches to kiss Eames’ temple. “Hey,” he says, quiet and fond.

“Shh.” Eames wraps an arm around Arthur’s waist, wraps the other hand around Arthur’s cock, wanking him lazily. “You’ll get yours, darling, never fear.” He puts his mouth on Arthur’s nipple, suckles and rubs him until he feels the muscles under his cheek growing taut.

He wants to do _everything_ to Arthur, give him every conceivable pleasure and probably some pains as well, wants to suck on his cock and his nipples and his toes and his tongue, wants to put his prick and his fingers anywhere Arthur will let him, wants to burrow inside Arthur and never come out again.

Wants to make Arthur come, messily, then get him hard again and do it all over from the beginning.

He settles his hand on the curve of Arthur's hip, nips under his jaw and goes back to kneel between his spread legs. Eames takes a moment to kiss the arch of Arthur's foot, gently set his teeth on the back of his ankle, raising his leg to kiss the back of his knee. This makes Arthur squirm, so Eames keeps at it for a moment longer before getting back to where he was.

He takes Arthur's cock in his mouth, just for a minute, then gets up for the slick. His mind is a jittery mess of _want_ , he can't figure out what he wants first – _Suck him, fuck him, rim him,_ just make Arthur fucking come in every conceivable way.

In the end, Eames slicks both his hands and pushes Arthur to lie back and stick up his bum. Eames helps him by leaning his forearm on one of Arthur's thighs, grabbing Arthur's cock with one slick hand, fingering himself with his other hand while bending to lick at Arthur's hole. He doesn't dip his tongue inside, just circling the rim delicately, in sharp contrast to the way he's carelessly jamming two fingers in himself.

Arthur moans and Arthur begs and Arthur curses, but Eames doesn't give him more than the lightest tease, moving up to mouth at his balls, jerking him with a slick hand. When Arthur stills and swells in his hand Eames pauses, grabbing hard around the base of his cock, until Arthur sobs and settles, orgasm averted.

Eames stands up. "Put your legs down," he says, and Arthur does. Eames sits astride him, waiting, letting Arthur's cock just nudge at his hole, rubbing himself just over the head. Arthur's spread out beneath him, delicious, nipples perking up and the muscles in his stomach working as he tries unsuccessfully to thrust into Eames.

Eames settles down with one smooth motion, groaning as Arthur fills him, hard and thick and just right. He bends forward to kiss Arthur's neck, to nose at his ear.

Arthur's gasping, squirming under him. Eames curls his hands around Arthur's upper arms and mouths at his clavicle, moving a little because he can't help it, loving how Arthur feels under and inside him, undone with pleasure.

"Eames." Arthur's voice is hoarse. " _Eames_ ," and Eames can feel it when Arthur comes, in the twitching of his muscles, sees it in how Arthur's eyes roll back, in how his tied hands grip each other. Eames sits up, jacking himself and clenching on Arthur's softening cock.

"Hey, my hands, could you," Arthur says, and Eames leaves himself to untie Arthur with badly shaking hands. He's a little frantic with the need to come (more than a little), absurdly wishing he'd put a condom on Arthur so he could suck at his softening cock as he gets himself off.

Arthur pushes at him, rearranging them until they lie on their sides facing each other, pulls Eames' leg to drape over his own. He puts two fingers inside Eames, sliding in the slickness of the lube and his own come, his other hand pulling on Eames' prick. Eames rests his forehead in the hollow of Arthur's throat, gasping ragged as Arthur brings him off with sure, steady hands.

Too soon afterwards Arthur stirs, as if to move away. Eames kisses his forehead and gets up. "Stay put, I've got this." Arthur settles back down with a contented murmur.

Eames washes his hands, wets a towel and goes back to the living room. He bats Arthur's hand away when he reaches for the towel. "I said I've got this," Eames says, wiping at Arthur's cock, at his stomach.

Arthur allows this, unmoving, until Eames has cleaned him to mutual satisfaction. Then he gets up and pushes Eames to lie down on his stomach. "Stay," he says, nipping at Eames' throat, when Eames makes a move to protest this treatment.

He then proceeds to spread Eames' arsecheeks and wipe him clean, kissing absently at the small of Eames' back.

"This is just ridiculous," Eames says into the couch pillows, muffled.

"Deal with it," Arthur advises him. He climbs on top of Eames, kisses the back of his neck, and - if his sudden heaviness is any hint - falls asleep.

“Bloody typical,” Eames grumbles. Or he would, except it’s difficult to grumble while smiling quite this wide.

~~

They make it to the bed. Eventually. With much yawning and a grope or two, but generally in an efficient manner. Eames has a method to falling asleep, and it involves his face buried between Arthur’s shoulder blades; as lovely as a nap on the couch is, Eames most firmly requires a bed at this point.

They settle back down, and Arthur’s showing signs of falling right back asleep before stirring. “Wait. Uh, wanted to ask you something. What was it?”

“If I knew, you wouldn’t have to ask,” Eames says dryly. He cups the back of Arthur’s head, pushing him against his chest. “But I assume it pertains to today’s job?”

“Uh. Right. Job. The Cobbs.” Arthur pauses, then snickers. “That rhymes.”

This is a sure sign that Arthur needs to sleep before making any important decisions. Still, Eames may as well say his piece. “I don’t think they’re a good idea,” he says. “They rely too much on each other. It’s going to bite them in the arse one of these days, mark my words.”

Arthur leans up on his elbow. He’s looking skeptic.

“Dependence is a weakness,” Eames says. “One can’t afford weakness, in the kind of work we do.”

Arthur snorts. “Everyone has weaknesses. You taught me that.” He pokes Eames in the solar plexus. Eames hopes that isn’t meant as a demonstration.

“Yes, by example,” Eames mutters. Arthur raises an eyebrow but doesn’t inquire further, instead pushing his head into Eames’ shoulder until Eames nudges him to turn around and settle into the proper sleep position.

With his nose pressed right against Arthur’s skin, Eames finds it easier to sleep, but even so he’s troubled. _Weaknesses_ , he thinks. Arthur’s right that everyone has one, but it’s almost offensive to Eames, at times, that his own weakness is so glaringly obvious these days. That he can’t hide it, or won’t, and he’s not sure what worries him more.

And yet.

Arthur could’ve got up and run when Eames woke him up. That’s what Eames _meant_ for him to do. And yes, Arthur’s as weighed down by Eames as Eames is weighed down by him, and that’s no comfort at all.

But no, that’s not right. Arthur’s not weighing him down. He makes Eames balk and he makes Eames make foolish choices, but he’s never dragged him back. If anything, he’s always pulling Eames forward. It was Arthur who insisted on working with the Cobbs, Arthur who was willing to try the experimental formula.

Arthur who never gives up, ever, under any circumstances, and who can defend himself better than anyone Eames has ever seen. They train together, after all, honing themselves against each other. Eames knows.

Eames lets himself go loose behind Arthur, leaning into his back, some small tight anxiousness in him relaxed at last. There are chinks in any armor. Best go for chinks that are armored themselves.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a tiny kink_bingo fill for the blood play and emotion play spaces. The blood play mostly never came through, sadly, and the emotion play turned into this massive unwieldy THING.


End file.
